


All Roads Lead Somewhere

by bergann



Series: Roadtrip [2]
Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M, Road Trip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-30
Updated: 2010-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-06 20:30:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bergann/pseuds/bergann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They all file into the back rows of the room quietly, treating the award ceremony like they would a real recon mission -- balls of the feet to minimize noise and increasingly dramatic hand signals to figure out the seating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Roads Lead Somewhere

**Author's Note:**

  * For [idrilfinial](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=idrilfinial).



> In which the author knows nothing of the real format of award ceremonies, and accurate details are sacrificed for potential comedy value. As they so often are.

They all file into the back rows of the room quietly, treating the award ceremony like they would a real recon mission -- balls of the feet to minimize noise and increasingly dramatic hand signals to figure out the seating. They're ten minutes late, thanks to a wrong turn of all fucking ridiculous things; and any noise too loud would attract the attention of people much more powerful than them in the front of the room.

The company Brad's in might be a bunch of whiskey tango fucks, but they've got occasional brain power.

"We're being kept down by the Man," Poke says out of the corner of his mouth, "'Cause the Man can never rest. Gotta go on dominating everyone else."

"That's it exactly," Brad says, wonders if he can goad Poke into a real rant about being kept down by the Man, even with the Man right there on the stage, holding a, by all means, moving speech, if only it wasn't masquerading as a fucking boring one. Of course, once Poke gets started, he won't stop until his point has been made -- much like Ray, only Ray rarely has a point, and when he does, it's never about anything important.

Brad lets it go.

"Fuck man," Ray whispers, twenty excruciating minutes later. It's not the speech itself that's mind numbingly dull, just the man himself; not to mention the fact they've all been trapped in a car together the past couple of days and don't exactly have an infinite well of patience left over. "This dude has got balls. He's making speeches into an extreme sport where everyone around you might die."

"Shit, brah, I've got a serious phantom itch for my gun," Stafford complains, pretending to line up the shot.

"I wasn't aware we were in the market for a new fucking Trombley, Q-Tip," Ray responds, a little grin on his face that says he plans to have some fun with this. Before he can though, Brad's reached over and flicked him.

"This was your bright idea, so shut up."

Ray makes a face, like he's considering disobeying just to be an annoying little dick, but subsides.

Further down the row, Brad can see Garza and Lilley thumb-wrestling, and Manimal's mouth is moving to accompany the vulgar gestures of his hands that have Chaffin shaking with muffled amusement.

The others are on good little soldier behavior, treating the man on the podium the same way they did Casey Kasem; blank faces with no trace of actual attention being paid in them, listening only for the words that might require action.

The man finishes to polite applause, and the ceremony picks up the pace after that. Awards are handed out, speeches are made, and polite applause is had all around.

When the LT takes the stage, a little over halfway through the event, the room is suddenly filled with boisterous applause. Most of Bravo are on their feet, and there's no mistaking Rudy's loud, "You deserve it, brother!"

The LT looks caught somewhere between amused and confused, and Brad knows there's no way he'll be able to see them with the lights right in his face like that, but Nate's eyes still narrow as he tries to anyway.

Just as suddenly as the noise had erupted, it ceases to exist in order for Nate to make his speech. He has an amused curve to his mouth as he reminds them it was a group effort; his people deserve it more than he does, and as he briefly outlines the successes so far of the anti-terror plan.

"Did you hear that?" Ray asks, "He's replaced us! He has new people now. I, for one, feel deeply wounded we've been forgotten so easily."

"It's been eight years," Poke points out.

Brad agrees. "I should ask him how he did it. I've been wanting to get away from your fucking skinny hick ass for years."

Ray makes a face. "You say that, and yet your eyes say 'My dearest pal Ray-Ray, hug my emotional retardation out of my poor lonely soul'."

Brad narrows his eyes, and decides it's better for all involved if he responds to that particular comment somewhere that doesn't have politicians and generals sitting close enough to be witnesses.

Stafford laughs. "Shit, brah, you're stupider than I remember. You didn't just poke the Iceman with a stick; you jammed that sucker up his ass good."

"Might I remind you both that there is still the matter of the return trip?" Brad says, "The entire country provides a large place to hide a body or two."

It quiets as Nate finishes up, erupting back into loud applause after the last word. He looks towards the back as he takes his seat.

"Okay," Gunny says, once the next person is on the stage. "We're Oscar Mike."

"What?"

"We need to get a move on back to the hotel so that we'll make it to the post-award celebratory drinks." Walt whispers. "It's got a sterner dress code."

"You're joking."

"I wish, Brad," Ray says sadly, "but sacrifices have to be made, and tonight your comfort clothing is one of them."

Brad can't believe that with all the money the U.S. government has spent turning him into one of the nations most highly trained Marines, he's yet to find a way to remove Ray Person from his life.

"Don't you worry, sir," Rudy says, once they're out on the street again, and seriously, Brad needs to figure out a way to make these motherfuckers forget that last mission ever happened. "We'll make you pretty."

*

 

"I didn't think you'd show," Nate says, and Brad turns around. Nate's standing with a cautious smile on his face, the shadow of the fight in his eyes. "I sent the invite, but..."

They'd arrived barely minutes ago, and yet the rest of Bravo is suddenly nowhere in sight, even with an open bar right there.

"You've gotten stealthier," Brad says, "Kind of stupid to sneak up on a Recon Marine."

"I think I could handle it," Nate says, "I'm often underestimated."

"I imagine even more now that you're the pussy liberal dick-sucking politicians' new golden boy." Brad notes, and Nate's face does something funny. "I actually haven't had the opportunity to see my mail yet."

"Then how...?"

"LT!" Ray says, coming up to them, drink in hand. Behind him, Walt's standing with his head in his hands. "You've grown, all tall and powerful. I feel like a proud fucking parent at his son's graduation."

"That's...disturbing," Nate says, face twisted in a way only Ray Person can accomplish. "But I suppose the sentiment can be appreciated. Thank you."

Ray grins. "I was gonna give you a slice of the best fucking pie in the whole fucking world as part of the congratulations, but then Walt kind of ate it on the way."

Nate says, face so perfectly blank you'd almost think Captain America was around, "That is unfortunate."

"Yeah," Ray nods. "Fortunately for you though, Brad here knows exactly where the fuck this heavenly pie making place is, and you being the current savior of the world and everything, I'm sure he wouldn't hesitate at all to do his bit and take you there."

"Really?" Brad says.

"Sure." Ray says, "After all, you've got that Ford Explorer that needs to be delivered back in Oceanside."

Then the fucker flees. Nate looks at Brad. "You've lost your frosty if you're getting outsmarted by Ray Person."

"I may have had other things on my mind," Brad says, and eventually adds, "I should have called about the shooting."

Nate's expression hardens a little, "Yeah."

"It wasn't serious."

"As getting shot so rarely is."

"It was minor shrapnel."

"The Iceman got evacuated from a war zone." Nate says, "I don't think there's a Marine I know who wouldn't be worried you lost a limb or two."

"They were new trailer-park motherfucking moronic officers straight from Captain America and Encino Man's s sperm mixer and their wine-sipping hippie surrogate's womb," Brad says. "A casevac injury looked good on paper for them."

"I have never had a more disturbing thought in my life. Thank you for that."

Brad acknowledges it with a small nod. "The point is, those morons would have called the casevac chopper if I'd so much as stubbed a fucking toe." He pauses, for a moment acutely aware of the people in the room who'd clutch at their fucking pearls at his words about their precious asslickers. "But I can admit that I should've sent some sort of word before going back."

"Thanks for saying that with a straight face," Nate says, "Though I may have overreacted."

"With all due respect, sir, you acted like a girl."

"It's strange how you go such lengths to be forgiven, and then destroy all your hard work with one sentence."

"I wasn't asking for forgiveness, I was merely explaining the situation as I should've done to begin with."

Nate makes a sound of possible agreement, but instead of harping on the subject like the girl Brad just accused him of being, he says, "And tell me again why nearly all of Bravo is in D.C.?"

"They've got fuckall else to do now that the government has removed the gun from most of their hands but be the sorriest excuses of fishwives the world has ever had the misfortune to house."

Nate's mouth finally twists into a real smile. "Really," he says, "they came all this way to gossip like old women?"

"Most of it was probably about the pie." Brad shrugs when Nate looks at him. "Ray might eat like a blind monkey, but he has good taste."

"Well then," Nate says, heading towards Poke, Ray and Walt. "I suppose someone'll just have to show me."

Brad falls in behind him with a brief, light touch at Nate's back.

"Thank God," Poke says, "White man's finally got his shit together again. Now you can get around to adopting some African children from a war-torn country to make you feel better about all the misery and destruction your ancestors have caused."

"You're talking about Nate, right?" Ray asks, "Because Brad's Jewish -- he can still play the World War II card."

Even Brad's a little impressed at the speed at which Nate manages to extract himself from the conversation and seamlessly enter a new one, safely on the other side of the room.

Brad drapes an arm around Ray's shoulders, fingers sinking into the flesh of his arm, and says conversationally, "So tell me, how exactly did you think you'd get out of here unscathed?"

"I didn't see shit," Poke says, and disappears almost as quickly as Nate.

"Mostly, Brad, I was relying on your goodwill and gratitude for my friendly help to forgive the small indiscretions that may or may not have happened along the way."

Walt snorts. "Bad fucking decision," he says, and follows Poke and the LT's example.

Brad's fingers squeeze until Ray gives the squeak of sudden and devastating realization of impending doom, while on the other side of the room it looks like money is changing hands, and then he just grins.


End file.
